


A Pocketful of Rue

by Angstosaur



Category: Lord John Series - Diana Gabaldon, Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Angst, Awkward Conversations, Book 2: Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, large scottish fists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29947311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angstosaur/pseuds/Angstosaur
Summary: Quote from Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade by Diana Gabaldon:“He remembered nothing but the shock of impact as Fraser’s fist struck the boards an inch from his head, and the sob of breath, hot on his face.”What if Fraser’s fist had struck its target?Who would rue their words and actions the most?~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Relationships: Jamie Fraser & Lord John Grey
Comments: 7
Kudos: 41





	A Pocketful of Rue

**Author's Note:**

> With gratitude to @drivablecar for reading through this first and offering some invaluable advice. Her support, as ever, is greatly appreciated.

** A pocketful of rue**

The red mist evaporated to be replaced by a sequence of stark images. So close was he to Grey that he could see directly into those bonny blue eyes. He saw the moment the spark of fury faded and blinked out. The rosy cheeks flushed with anger one moment drained of colour the next.

Jamie’s mouth fell open at the same time as Grey’s, in that fraction of a second when they both realised that there could be no reflex fast enough to spare either of them.

There was more than shock in Grey’s eyes though. Behind the fear lay comprehension.

Releasing a sob, Fraser tried to avert his fist, but not soon enough. The force snapped Grey’s head around sharply. There was a sickening thud as his skull collided brutally with the rough-hewn timbers behind him.

Hardly daring to draw breath, Fraser watched the consequences of his impulsive act of violence unfold before his eyes. Grey’s legs gave way beneath him, as if a sword had slashed behind his knees, severing the sinews that kept a man on his feet. His eyes rolled up into his head and he was unconscious before he hit the ground. His fall was not broken by arms thrown out in reflex. Grey just collapsed, crumpled and ungainly. Those graceful limbs, usually so elegantly deployed, lay in unnatural angles on the filthy floor.

Fraser froze.

Fist still clenched at his side, knuckles throbbing, he did not know what to do.

_He knew I was going to hit him._

_He could have moved._

_Why the hell hadn’t he ducked?_

Fraser quickly looked around. There was not a soul in sight to have witnessed what he had done. Of course not. Grey would never have embarked on a private conversation if there had been anyone in earshot.

Shifting his gaze to the stall still occupied by one of the more highly strung horses, Fraser considered making a run for it. He could have that horse saddled and be miles away before they found the body. Even further if he dragged it into a stall and hid it beneath a pile of straw. 

There would be a price on his head.

He would hang if they caught him.

He could never return home again.

Glancing from an empty stall to Grey’s body and back, he felt nauseated at the thought of ‘Grey’s body’. He had killed him. Bringing a hand to his mouth quickly, Fraser fought to keep control of his heaving stomach.

Then, it crossed his mind that perhaps Grey was not dead. Unlikely, but possible. He was a soldier too, despite his delicate frame and he knew he was stronger than he looked. Shaking with the sick sensations of shock: palms clammy, mouth dry and head spinning, Fraser crouched down to inspect the damage he had inflicted.

Grey had fallen face down, but Fraser could still see a trickle of blood running from his hairline across his forehead and down the side of his nose. One arm was trapped underneath him and the other flung out over his head. His legs were twisted, one under the other.

Recalling what Claire would do, Fraser carefully moved the frilled cuff out of the way and wrapped his fingers around Grey’s slender wrist. He could feel the pulsing of blood under his fingertips. An answer to the prayers he had not realised he had been muttering all the while. The Major’s heart still beat. He had no idea if it was too fast or too slow. It still beat. That alone was sufficient for him to take a breath of blessed relief.

However, Grey did not stir.

All around was silent. The distant cooing of a wood pigeon the only sound to be heard.

At his feet John Grey was motionless. Still. Unmoving. Because of what Fraser had done.

However, the overwhelming sensation for Fraser was one of enormous relief. And not just because he would not be on the run for murder.

He had wanted to kill Grey. He had meant to. But he did not want him dead.

Making a hasty sign of the cross he offered up a prayer of gratitude, for Grey’s sake and not his own, that he was still alive.

Taking in the state of the impeccably tailored uniform, the white breeches soiled with horse shit as Grey had fallen onto a clump of soiled straw, it briefly occurred to Fraser that he should call for someone to take the Major back to his room in the hall. The family would probably have to call for a doctor to attend to the injured man.

Fraser shuffled closer to the supine body, one hand still wrapped around the man’s wrist as thoughts came tumbling into his head, filling the void that had replaced his earlier righteous anger.

_Would Grey speak out against me? Would he revoke my parole? The Major would be within his rights to have me clapped in irons and locked away. I had nearly killed him._

While pondering what course of action to pursue, he felt Grey’s arm twitch as he began to recover consciousness. Fraser held his breath, awaiting his fate and willing to accept it, in the same way that John Grey had stood there and, at the last minute, chosen to let himself be struck down.

A groan indicated that Grey was nearing full consciousness and undoubtedly becoming aware of pain. Scrambling inelegantly to lift himself up onto his hands and knees, Grey grunted and then vomited onto the straw strewn ground. Sighing to himself, Fraser lightly laid a hand on his back, an innate gesture of comfort.

Breathing heavily, hovering perilously close to the contents of his stomach, Grey muttered quietly. Fraser could barely make out what he was trying to say. Not getting a response, Grey repeated himself, his voice hoarse, but louder than before.

“I … beg … your … forgiveness… sir.” The words came out between gasps for breath.

An apology had been the last thing that Fraser was expecting from the man he had assaulted. Seeing the man in obvious distress, a feeling of remorse prompted Fraser to slide his hand across Grey’s shoulder and down his arm, in an offer to help him to his feet. But his offer of assistance was refused as Grey shook his head slowly.

“I had no … I was angry… Christ. If I had known… I would never have …”

Frowning to himself, Fraser kept hold of Grey’s arm. The man was shaking – not with fear, but from something else.

“I ken that ye must report me –”

“No…” murmured Grey, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I shall not… My fault. I …I…”

Trying to push himself upwards, Grey began to lurch forward and would have collapsed face down into the soiled straw had Fraser not grabbed hold of the fabric of his coat and hauled him to one side.

“Ye cannae stay here,” hissed Fraser, as worried for Grey as he was for himself. “The other grooms will be coming back soon.”

“Agreed. However, Mister Fraser… I cannot return to the house… not like this.” Grey was still breathing heavily, in some discomfort. “I suppose… I could… say… I tripped… and fell.”

“What?” Fraser snorted in disbelief and shook his head. “Onto my fist?”

Beneath Grey’s head, Fraser could see the splashes of blood that had dripped onto the dirty straw. The man’s face was not visible to him, so he could only wonder what other injuries he had inflicted.

“Would you help …? I know… have no right,” murmured Grey, as if fighting to remain conscious.

“Seeing as I was the one that almost killed ye, I think it’s only fair tae ask.” Fraser was feeling more and more concerned for Grey. He was injured, bleeding and even though Fraser was familiar with the way that cuts to the scalp bled profusely, he had knocked the man out and it seemed that he was barely aware of his surroundings. “Where do ye want tae go?”

“Somewhere secluded from prying eyes?” asked Grey pitifully. “I do not wish to be seen… not like this.”

“Aye. There’s that old outbuilding near the paddock. It’s used to store broken tack and the like. No one goes there at this time o’ day.” Frowning at Grey, he took hold of him by both arms before checking that he was ready to move. “Are ye ready tae move?”

“No… but I must.” Leaning heavily on Fraser, the injured man staggered to his feet and stumbled a few steps before leaning against a partition between stalls.

“Easy there,” advised Fraser, pressing a hand to Grey’s chest to keep him in place. “Ye’re going tae end up headfirst in the horse shite if ye dinna take care.”

Without a second thought, Fraser stooped down and slung one of Grey’s arms over his own broad shoulders. He could not let him fall – not again. He took most of the man’s weight as he steered him in the direction of the outbuilding he had referred to. The uneven ground seemed to prove an exceptional challenge to Grey, whose feet seemed to drag over the surface, catching on every clod of earth and clump of tough vegetation.

Grateful that no one else was around, Fraser managed to get Grey out of sight and into the dilapidated old shed. Closing the door behind them, he loosened his hold on Grey, not surprised to feel the man slide towards the ground.

“Here, sit with yer back to the wall.” Fraser propped Grey up against the side of the shed. “Stay here while I go fetch some water and a cloth tae clean ye up.”

Slipping out of the shed, Jamie ran back to the stable yard to collect a pail of water and a handful of clean rags. Warily checking that no one was watching his movements, he strolled towards the paddock and then darted back into the shed, grateful to see that Grey was still moving and not dead.

He knelt down on the ground next to Grey and shook his head in dismay.

“I could ha’ killed ye,” he said as he brushed Grey’s hair behind his ears in order to get a better look at the man’s face

“I would have deserved it… if what I suspect is true.” Grey shuddered as he wiped at his forehead with the sleeve of his coat, succeeding in smearing the blood across both skin and shirt cuff.

“Here, let me.”

Fraser took a cloth and after dipping it into the pail of water, wrung it out and then gently wiped the blood from Grey’s face. Cradling his jaw in one hand he tilted Grey’s head from side to side to assess the injuries. Grey’s nose was bleeding and there was cut to his mouth. A nasty graze disfigured the temple from where his face had been slammed into the timber wall. The worst injury, as he had expected, was where his fist had made contact, the skin was discoloured and the imprints of knuckles were horribly visible to anyone knowing what to look for. It was obviously going to develop into quite a spectacular bruise.

“I suspect that attempted murder is against the rules of my parole.” Fraser grimaced as he dabbed at the bleeding cut on Grey’s forehead. “I understand that ye have nae choice but tae report me. It is yer duty as my parole officer.”

“Protocol would indeed require me to arrest you here and now.” Slumping back against the wooden boards, Grey ran the tip of his tongue over his cut lip and winced. “But you, sir, do not deserve any form of retribution for your actions.”

“What?” demanded Fraser, confused. “Why the hell would ye say that?”

“I’ll explain… if…” Grey’s words petered out as he became paler and his head rolled back as if it was suddenly too heavy to hold up.

“Major! Grey? Are ye alright, man?” asked Jamie, urgently. He reached out and gently shook Grey by the shoulder. “A Dhia, man, will ye no’ lie down before ye pass out again.”

Helping Grey recline on the floor, he dragged over a weathered hessian sack and folded it up to provide a makeshift pillow for Grey’s head. He recalled an instruction given to him by Claire in the past and taking hold of Grey by shoulder and hip he turned him onto his side, with one leg tucked over to keep him from rolling onto his back. If he were to vomit again, at least he would not be in danger of choking. Fraser then dampened another cloth to clean more blood from Grey’s face. He scowled as an errant trickle made its way around Grey’s grazed temple and soaked into the discoloured stock around his throat. Any attempt to clean up any sign of what had befallen the man was becoming more and more futile. He was so focused on his pointless task that he almost missed Grey clearing his throat to attract his attention.

“Mister Fraser? We really should discuss certain matters. I need answers – but I fear that you may decide to finish what you started beforehand. However, I beg of you, for your sake, not mine, that you exercise restraint. I would rather not have your subsequent arrest and execution on my conscience.” Grey spoke slowly and quietly, deliberating on every word. “Will you endeavour to hear me out?”

“Aye, I owe ye that much at least,” agreed Jamie, after a moment of consideration. However, heeding Grey’s concerns, he chose to put some distance between them first and sat on an upturned barrel with a space greater than an arm’s length separating them.

“I have in my pocket a flask of brandy. Would you do me the honour of sharing it with me? For old times’ sake?” Grey’s eyes seemed to be pleading for forgiveness whereas it occurred to Fraser that he should be the one begging for clemency.

Grey had often shared his brandy with Fraser when they had played chess together in the grounds of Helwater. But the circumstances they found themselves in were far removed from those more convivial occasions.

“Are ye sure?” asked Fraser, frowning.

“Whether you want any or not, I need some.” Grey fumbled with his coat that was bunched up underneath him. “I would be grateful if you would-”

Fraser shuffled over and carefully slid a hand into the folds of the red uniform coat. As he withdrew the slim flask, his fingers brushed against Grey’s chest. His breathing was fast and shallow, his whole body trembling with nervous anxiety.

Opening the flask, Fraser passed it to Grey, who tipped it to his mouth. He winced as the spirit ran across his split lip. He then offered the flask to Fraser, who gratefully took a generous swallow, feeling in need of fortification.

“Your reaction, sir,” expounded Grey, gently probing his swollen face with his fingertips. “You struck out, I think not at me, but at what my words had cruelly invoked. Someone in your past caused you great injury, I suspect.”

Fraser felt Grey’s eyes boring into him, as if they could see all the way through to the damaged core of his soul. He shifted uneasily and with a barely perceptible nod of his head confirmed Grey’s deductions.

“I thought so. An assault that you carry to this day in your mind, such that a reminder of that event brings great anger and rage.” Grey’s eyes became unfocused, and it was unclear whether or not he was referring to Fraser, or himself. A sardonic twist to his lips suggested the latter. “I would venture that the assault was something that you were unable to defend yourself against. Therefore, not an attack by sword or otherwise in fair combat. I hope to God it was not something that happened whilst you were imprisoned at Ardsmuir-”

“Nae. Long before then,” murmured Fraser, sparing Grey from taking the blame for something that had happened when he was only a young boy.

Taking a slow breath to calm himself, Fraser pondered on how Grey’s words had brought to the surface feelings he kept closely guarded most of the time. He wondered how Grey managed to perceive his vulnerability so clearly. Narrowing his eyes, he watched as Grey fiddled with the flask in his hands. It occurred to him that only one familiar with such feelings would recognise them in another.

“Aye – ye’re right there, Major. And if I may be sae bold, it sounds as if ye’ve suffered such an assault yerself.”

“Major…” murmured Grey, his lips curling disdainfully. Over the years that he had been visiting Fraser at Helwater, he had hoped that one day they would be comfortable addressing one another by their given names. “For this conversation, I would be grateful if you were to call me John. Not by my rank, title or family’s name. Would you do that?”

“If that’s what ye’d like. John.” Fraser nodded, considering what the man was really requesting. That their discussion would go no further and not be held against either of them. Tapping the fingers of one hand against his thigh, the muscle taut with nervous energy, he realised that to confirm the unspoken agreement, he had to reciprocate. “Ye may call me Jamie. If ye wish.”

“Thank, you, Jamie.” John’s response was suffused with gratitude and relief. He took a deep breath before continuing, bracing himself for a violent response. “Yes, your supposition is correct. I am familiar with…” John’s voice trailed off as he paused to rub his head, the throbbing pain reminding him of the subject of their discussion. “What I infer from your reaction … I know… something of that ... that irrational rage that responds to memories unwittingly evoked.”

“Aye?” Jamie leant forward, partly to hear John clearly, for he was speaking softly, and partly to see the man’s eyes clearly. He could discern no sign of deception. Earlier he had witnessed the seething rage in John’s demeanour, barely contained in the whispered threat he had unleashed. He had seen John Grey come close to losing control, so he knew that he spoke truthfully.

“My own reaction to the accusations you levelled at me… ” John paused to twist the signet ring on his little finger, focusing his agitation on the one item of jewellery he always wore. “However vile your implications were, my words to you were unconscionable.”

Rubbing at the crease between his eyes, Jamie scowled as it occurred to him that there was a question he wanted to ask of John.

“Before ye go any further, can ye tell me what was it that that made ye angrier than I have ever seen ye in all the years we’ve kent one another?”

From the moment he had seen John crumple to the ground, Jamie’s focus had been the consequences of lashing out with his fists. It had taken a while for him to consider the argument that had precipitated his act of violence. The whole argument and not just those last incendiary words uttered by John. 

Screwing his eyes shut, Fraser cast his mind back and realised with a jolt, that he had not seen John so furious since that day at Ardsmuir. In his mind’s eye he could picture the scene vividly when he had falsely claimed a piece of tartan as his own in order to goad John Grey into having him flogged. And even then, he had not seen or heard John lose control. As always, he had hung onto control through sheer willpower. Many the time he had seen John clench his jaw to keep from screaming out what was really on his mind.

Opening his eyes, he saw that John had pulled his legs up and was sitting up, his head propped up against the timber wall. His attention was focused on the sapphire ring he wore. Jamie wondered if he had even heard his question, he seemed so lost in a world of his own. A world that appeared to be more appealing than the one in which he was nursing an aching head, filthy and bleeding, on the floor of an outbuilding on the Helwater estate. But then, John looked up, his eyes brimming with unshed tears as he swallowed hard, as if on the verge of making a confession.

“In answer to your question, it was your assertion that love cannot exist between two men as it does between a man and a woman.” A tear slid down John’s face, mingling with blood as it coursed down his cheek. “If that were truly the case, surely my heart would not ache every time I close my eyes and see his ravaged body on the ground. To this day, I still feel my brother’s fingers biting into my arms as he dragged me away.”

“Your particular friend?” asked Jamie, although he knew of whom John spoke. “At Culloden?”

John nodded his head and grimaced as it hurt when he did so. Absently he rubbed his head and sucked in a breath sharply as he touched the tender area on his skull.

“Hal only showed me Hector’s body because I refused to believe he was dead. I would have searched that entire bloody mire for him otherwise and my brother knew that. He was not quite dead, not when I saw him last. He …” John swallowed down a sob that was trying to break free. “I felt my soul torn asunder as my dear Hector departed what was left of his mutilated body.”

“I’m sorry ye had to endure that, John,” said Jamie, regretting his role in dragging back such an horrific memory.

John absently reached out and patted the back of Jamie’s hand.

“You made it perfectly clear how repugnant you found the mere concept – I could see the disgust in your eyes. Yet, I know for a fact that the joy and pain of such a love can be felt between two men…” John faltered as he clenched his own fists in his lap. “To despise such a love is one matter, but to declare that it may never exist-”

“John, I-” Jamie was shaking his head. There was no denying that he had meant every bitter word when he had spat them out like venom into John’s face. But now, as he sat across from John Grey and recognised the forlorn expression of heartbreak and grief, it occurred to him that his prejudices had clouded his vision.

“No, please allow me to continue.” John held up a hand to stall Jamie. “If I do not get this off my chest now, I never shall.”

Shuffling around in an attempt to get more comfortable, John ran a hand over his temple and rubbed his jawline as the twinge in the joint started to throb painfully. Although he knew that it would be better to lie down and rest a while, he had detected a change in Jamie Fraser’s mood. The transition from belligerent antagonist to considerate listener was a new development, possibly a wariness due to guilt – or fear that John would go back on his word and report him for assault. Whatever the reason, John felt that he could not let the opportunity pass him by. A mirthless laugh broke free as he wondered what they would both have done if the punch had missed him. It occurred to him that he had realised, belatedly, the cause for Jamie’s violent outburst. Like a storm cloud forever hovering over their friendship casting dark shadows, the downpour that had finally happened gave a different perspective to all their interactions over the years.

“John? Are ye alright, man?” Jamie was leaning forward, tentatively jostling John’s knee to rouse him. “Are ye feeling unwell? Ye’re looking awfully pale – should I call fer someone from the house?”

“No – I am not feeling at all well, but please do not call for anyone. There will be questions I am unwilling to answer.” John wiped his nose on his sleeve, wrinkling his forehead as he saw the dark smear of blood stain the cuff of his shirt. “I … I want you to hear what I have to say. While you seem of a mind to listen.”

“As ye wish, John.” Jamie felt obliged to acquiesce as he took in the bloodied and bruised appearance of the man whose life had been, and still was, in his hands.

“I shall preface what I am about to say by acknowledging that you will never feel anything towards me, possibly not even tolerance. I must admit to an act of selfishness, for the reason you are here, at Helwater, and not festering in the Colonies as an indentured slave, is because I could not bear for another man I had loved to have lost their life for nothing.” Pausing to take another draft of brandy, John smiled sadly as he met Jamie’s eyes. “It was within my power to keep you safe. I could not do that for Hector. As propriety denied me the right to mourn him openly, I have grieved for him every day since then. To grieve in such a way for two men that I loved would destroy me.”

Jamie sat and listened. He cast his mind back to Ardsmuir and the expression on Grey’s face when he had first told him of the friend he had lost. That had been five years ago and the battle over ten years gone, yet he could feel the waves of grief roll from Grey’s body as if the man had been killed just the previous day. He recognised that level of grief. He felt it for his beloved Claire, and his second child, both lost to him forever. He suffered it for his first child, Faith, buried in Paris. Such grief had him flee his gaolers and chase a rumoured sighting of a ‘white lady’. That escapade had led to a confrontation between himself and Major Grey. Watching John bring the sapphire ring to his lips, Jamie idly wondered what had had become of the gem he had given to him.

Ruefully he tilted his head until he caught John’s eye. He knew precisely what John spoke of and knew that such a grief arose from genuine, all-encompassing love. They were both vessels for pain that hollowed them out inside.

“I ken what ye speak of, John. Every day, I grieve fer my wife and bairns, that I’ll never see again.”

“Children? Oh… dear God, Jamie.” His mouth agape, John shook his head in sympathy. “Dear Lord, I am so sorry. I never knew-”

“It’s there inside all the time,” said Jamie, thumping his fist against his chest. Finally, he had to admit to himself that the feelings John described were echoed in his own soul. “I ken what ye mean, John. Especially when there is nae one ye can share that grief with. We have that in common-”

“If only that were truly the case!” retorted John, bitterness seeping into his thoughts. Tears blurred his vision as he shook his head slowly. “You have never spoken of this to me before, but I imagine you would never have to defend loving your wife or children, or face imprisonment or the noose if your relationship had been reported-”

“I’m sorry, John.” Jamie bit the inside of his mouth as he considered how they had both misjudged each other because they had never known of the inner torment the other endured.

John held out the flask of brandy and raising it up in a toast he simply said:

“To those we’ve loved and lost.”

After taking a sip, he passed the flask to Jamie, who smiled sadly and repeated John’s words which were as apt as any he could find in his own heart.

“I really should return to the hall -” murmured John, examining the blood on his hands and on the front of his waistcoat. “They will be wondering what’s become of me.”

“How the hell are ye going to explain the state ye’re in tae the Dunsanys?” asked Jamie, worrying not only about his own fate, but of John’s reputation.

“The brandy – is there some left?”

“Aye. But no’ much.” Jamie passed the flask back to John, only to look horrified as John split some onto the front of his clothes and swirled the rest around his mouth before spitting it out.

“Call for assistance, perhaps one of the other grooms.” John awkwardly sprawled out on the dusty floor, all the while issuing instructions to Jamie. “I was probably seen entering the stables, so you should say that after speaking to me briefly, you saw me head for this shed. Then say, that after completing your chores you found me in here like this. It will seem that I drank to excess and took a nasty tumble-”

“What the hell are ye on about, man?” Jamie gaped in disbelief. He had sprung to his feet and was fighting the urge to take hold of John under his arms and drag him off the dirty ground.

“Go! Now! Just do it!” hissed John, pointing at the door. “I am attempting to save your bloody neck! All you need to say is that you found me here and tried to clean me up, but I -”

“I dinna ken that’s a good idea, John,” interrupted Jamie, shaking his head. “Ye took a nasty knock tae the head, ye ken. Ye’re no’ talking sense. If I were Lord Dunsany, I’d take one look at ye and assume it was the man who’d found ye that had struck ye down and no’ a dram of brandy.”

“Then send word for my valet to attend me,” suggested John, sounding frustrated. “When he arrives, tell him you found me stinking of brandy and bleeding profusely. I am confident that he will believe -”

“Why the hell would he believe that of ye?” demanded Jamie, crouching down to place a steadying hand on John’s back.

“It will not have been the first time-”

“That ye’ve been beaten senseless or fallen flat on yer face drunk?” asked Jamie, incredulously.

Sighing heavily, John took the arm that Jamie offered him and sat up, leaning back against a stack of wooden crates.

“Both.” A wry smile visited his lips briefly before vanishing from sight.

“Christ, John. D’ye have nae sense of self-preservation?” Jamie stood above John, hands on hips, shaking his head in dismay.

“Evidently sufficient to still be alive?” offered John, bashfully looking up at Jamie.

“Maybe. Although I suspect ye’ve just got an exceptionally thick skull.” Jamie crouched down opposite John to take a better look at the cut on the man’s brow and the bruise on his cheek. “Ye may stink of brandy, but the Dunsanys are no’ going tae believe ye’d get sae drunk –”

“Yes, they will,” stated John adamantly. He held Jamie’s indignant gaze as he started to loosen his stock and unfasten the top buttons of his coat, apparently in an effort to make himself look appropriately dishevelled. “Their son, Gordon, invited me here to stay. We were friends before he was killed at Prestonpans. I was young and foolish. We both drank to excess. Trust me, they know me as if I was their own adopted son and will understand my desire to seek oblivion-”

“Why?” demanded Jamie, growing increasingly irritated by John’s determination to behave in a manner he was finding very out of character. He had never seen John inebriated or out of control and found it hard to believe that the Dunsany family would accept that narrative for how John came to be injured. “Why would they believe ye’d wish tae drink yerself into a stupor?”

“Why? Damn you, they know I am due to testify against my brother-in-law!” exclaimed John, exasperated. “Hal informed them of the news by letter. They have not spoken to me at length concerning the matter. But they are aware of the charges he is facing and that, on my word, he will be either hanged or imprisoned for life!”

Jamie went pale and sunk down to the floor next to John. He swallowed hard as he pondered on what John had said. Earlier that day, he would have said that the man’s stepbrother deserved his fate. But he had not considered how it would feel to hold someone’s life in his hands on those terms. Then, tasting the burn of the brandy rising back up his gullet, he imagined if it was his word upon which John’s life hung in the balance. At that moment, he understood why John was troubled. Family honour meant a great deal to him, as he knew it did to John, too. But there were other bonds. He acknowledged there was a bond between himself and John Grey, forged over many years. A friendship built on a foundation of debts of honour. John had been a true friend who had done whatever was in his power to do the best he could for Jamie. He had saved his life – and was still prepared to act on Jamie’s behalf, even after he had come close to killing him.

Jamie wondered why the victim of his assault was gazing at him with such fond eyes, regardless of the spreading bruise across his cheek and jaw. Rubbing his own face, with a sweaty-palmed hand, it came to Jamie that he knew the reason and had always known it.

_John Grey loved him._

How could he deny that such love could exist while the evidence was sitting there? Bloodied and bruised yet refusing to seek retribution for such grievous injury.

_John was in love with him and had been for many years._

And he cared for John. A great deal.

As the red mist had dissolved the moment he had seen John fall, his concern had not just been for his own skin, but also for John’s welfare. He could never have forgiven himself if John had died at his hands. 

He looked at John once more and reached out to brush a loose strand of hair from his eyes, wincing as he felt it sticky with blood. Without thinking, he let his fingertips trail down John’s cheek and along his jaw, feeling the stubble as he did so.

“Ye’re a good man, John Grey. But I need ye to tell me what ye meant when ye said ye’d make me scream if ye were tae take me tae yer bed.”

John flushed scarlet, almost as red as the coat of his uniform.

“Dear God, that I could take back those words –”

“Aye, I wish I could have taken back my fist before it struck ye.” Jamie gently rubbed a thumb across John’s cheekbone, wanting to reassure himself that it was bruised and not cracked. The area was swollen and before he knew it, he was leaning across to press a kiss to the flushed skin. The blissful smile upon John’s face warmed his heart. “Ye were no’ talking about causing me pain, were ye, John?”

“Far from it, Jamie. I only meant that if I were ever to take you – God help me, willingly – to my bed, I would give you such pleasure you would cry out in rapture. I would never and have never, taken anyone to bed against their will. I know that it will never happen between us two – but I cannot deny that the thought of it intoxicates me … and if I continue to speak of it, I fear you will break my neck.”

While John had been speaking, so candidly and so vividly, Jamie’s hand had wrapped itself around his throat, long, calloused fingers tangling with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“What? Nae – ye’ve nothing tae fear by me.” Jamie shook his head as he realised by John had suddenly tensed up. “I swear to ye that I shall never lay a hand on ye again in anger.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitched as he quelled the temptation to ask if perhaps there would be any chance of Jamie laying hands on him with motives other than anger. A chuckle from Jamie suggested he had correctly interpreted the look in John’s eye and was humoured, not angered.

“Perhaps you could help me back to my room?” suggested John, hopefully. “Instead of calling for one of the other grooms or my valet. You can explain that you found me in a dreadful state in the stables… and then thought it best to return me to my room without drawing unnecessary attention to the condition in which you discovered me?”

“Aye, that at least has an element of truth about it.” Jamie nodded in agreement as he stood up. On impulse he ruffled John’s hair. “Aye, I could do that fer ye.”

“You would be willing?” checked John, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Aye, John. I’d be willing.” Stooping down to slide an arm around John’s waist, Jamie hoisted him to his feet and held him close for a while until he stopped swaying.

As he closed his eyes in relief, John felt a sigh of hot breath against his cheek and wondered if he was imagining such an improbable outcome to their intense argument.

~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~


End file.
